She starts leaving random clothes, her hairbrush, CDs all over his apartment.
“Well, that’s what people do, isn’t it?” She replies with a quirked eyebrow when he asks her about it, while he’s still unsure of where to put his hands. “They leave pieces of themselves behind so they can be out back together again, all better than before.”
He tries to understand, but can only think of how much he loves hearing her throaty voice singing random songs in the mornings, her off-key notes drifting through the walls. He thinks of the way her eyes look in the morning, bright and brown and curious, with golden flecks as the sunlight flows through the window shades and dances upon her skin. He finds that he loves the way she murmurs his name as he kisses her neck, her throat, her lips, and thinks that that is how someone is put back together. Someone else finds all of their scattered pieces, and one by one, falls in love with each and every one of them.